


Caring For His Boy

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: (sort of), Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Bruce Wayne Is Trying His Best, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, New Dad Bruce Wayne, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 17:32:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17027031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: “Alf.” Bruce’s voice was scratchy through the line, and distant, as if every Atlantic wave between Gotham and England could be counted in the static. But there was no mistaking the relief.“Master Bruce?” Alfred set his newspaper aside completely and braced for the worst.Created to fill renecdote's BatFam Christmas Stocking prompt "Bruce worrying over sick or injured kids." I don't know that this is quite what you had in mind, but hopefully it's okay.





	Caring For His Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renecdote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/gifts).



It was 8 AM in Sheffield, a glorious, soft morning with a whisper of a breeze and birdsongs that filtered in through the open window. Alfred was nursing a walloper of a headache after the last night’s ‘do, so he appreciated the day’s cooperation.

He had just sipped the dregs of his tea and folded back his newspaper when the phone rang. It was 8 AM in Sheffield, which meant the locals who knew he was in the country would likely still be asleep. It was 8 AM in Sheffield, which also meant it was 3 AM in Gotham. No good would come of this call.

Alfred remained calm as he picked up the line. “Alfred Pennyworth speaking.”

“Alf.” Bruce’s voice was scratchy through the line, and distant, as if every Atlantic wave between Gotham and England could be counted in the static. But there was no mistaking the relief.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred set his newspaper aside completely and braced for the worst.

There were rules about Alfred’s holiday. It was the only time he took all year, a relatively recent indulgence since Bruce reached adulthood, and there was an understanding that he not be disturbed except in the direst of emergencies. Bruce had always abided by those rules, even in that first year when the separation had sparked anxiety in them both. 

“Dick is sick.” Bruce had never been one to show emotion, even as a boy. Animation was doled out purposefully, as a tool, as a distraction, as a lever. Alfred had more practice reading him than most, and he didn’t think he was imagining the quiver of tension in Bruce’s voice.

What did _sick_ mean? A reaction to fear toxin? A new horror from Ms. Isley? An infection? Or something even more serious, a diagnosis of some sort?

Alfred knew if he closed his eyes, he would picture that sweet boy in a hospital gown, floating in a sea of dingy white. He kept his eyes opened, fixed straight ahead.

“Sick how, Master Bruce?”

“He woke me up a couple hours ago. Consistent vomiting, every fifteen minutes or so. Fever. Cough. Runny nose. He says he feels achy and cold. I’m sorry for calling during your holiday. I don’t know what to do.” 

How that admission must have cost that proud young man. Alfred had watched Bruce grow from a traumatized youngster into a determined adult raising a traumatized youngster of his own. It had certainly been a learning experience, one filled with more than a little uncertainty on everyone’s part, but Alfred had yet to hear Bruce sound so shaken.

“You took his temperature?” Alfred asked.

“Yes. 101.1 Fahrenheit.” Then, before Alfred could reply, “Alfred, hold on.”

There was a quiet tap as the phone was set down, and then the distant sound of voices.

Alfred clicked his tongue thoughtfully as he waited. He wondered how Bruce was dealing with the vomit. The boy had always been a bit of a sympathetic puker.

“Alfred?” Bruce’s voice was back in his ear again. “Sorry. He threw up again. Just spittle this time. I don’t think he has anything left. So what do I do? Take him to the emergency room?”

“Such drastic measures are not necessary yet,” Alfred assured him. “It sounds like young Master Dick is battling a spot of the flu. There is a small danger, very small, but with monitoring, he should be fine.”

“Are you sure?” The lower register that Bruce had gravitated toward in his older years had been stripped away by the night’s stress, leaving a boy that sounded soft and weary and very young indeed. Alfred could picture him leaning against the wallpapered hallway, his hand white-knuckled around the phone, and a loose curl falling down into shadowed eyes.

“Yes, my boy.” Alfred allowed himself a small smile, allowed the warmth of that smile to travel through his tone, down the line, all the way back to America. “Master Dick will need to stay hydrated. I recommend alternating ginger ale for the nausea and one of those obnoxious sports drinks you so enjoy for the electrolytes. If he continues to complain of aches, you may give him the paracetamol in the upstairs medicine cabinet, but mind the dosage.”

“Anything else? He’s so miserable, Alf.” As, it seemed, was Bruce.

“You were not a child that long ago,” Alfred reminded Bruce. “One that had fevers of his own, from time to time. What comforted you?”

“A cold cloth always felt good,” Bruce mused. “And... and when you’d sit with me.”

Alfred had several fond memories of sitting next to the bedside of one sweaty-haired boy, a hand pinning open a book, and the other resting atop small fingers. He also had other memories, dimmer but no less visceral, of being a relatively young man himself, faced with the enormous responsibility of caring for a vulnerable life. Of keeping a brave face while internally despairing of the task before him. He was glad that one set of these memories had stuck with Bruce, while the other had not.

“Try that, then. If his fever has not dropped by the afternoon, take him to the clinic or call me. All will be well, Master Bruce.”

There was a huffed breath on the other end of the line. It was a huff Alfred was well familiar with, one that came with exhaustion, frustration, and a bitter amusement. He had heard it many times over homework packets, business analyses, and stubborn case files. It was as Bruce as those tousled locks, that firm Wayne chin, that big but closely guarded heart.

“I have no clue what I’m doing here, Alfred,” Bruce admitted quietly.

Alfred’s answer was immediate. “Your best, Master Bruce. That is what you must offer, and it is what that boy needs. Beyond that...” In his sunny English room, Alfred gave an elegant shrug. “Welcome to parenthood.”

“Don’t even joke,” Bruce warned.

Alfred smiled. Bruce might not yet be ready to admit to his role in Dick’s life, but that would come.

“Good evening, Master Bruce. Give Master Dick my well wishes.”

“Goodnight, Alfred. Thank you.”

“Any time, my boy. Any time.”


End file.
